


A Bloody Harmony

by doctorfuriousa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Play, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jim's fucked up, M/M, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Torture, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorfuriousa/pseuds/doctorfuriousa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock manages to outwit Moriarty on the rooftop of St Bart's Hospital, he's left to ponder the fact that he's finally found his match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Outcome

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo friends. This is my first attempt at fanfic, and it's been ages since I've written any fiction whatsoever. Any feedback is welcome; I'd love to hear from you!  
> As the tags indicate, there will be no Johnlock in this fic. Time to relish some delicious Sheriarty, my friends. Eventually.

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t for one _second_ think that I _am one of them_.”

Awed realization flashes across Jim’s face. Sherlock has managed to surprise him. It’s not that this outcome went unconsidered; it was simply the most unlikely in Jim’s mind. “No. You’re not.” Sherlock has managed to tickle his interest one final time. He relishes the euphoria of Sherlock’s counterplay, letting it roll across his tongue. Savouring it. “I see. You’re not ordinary. Nah.” It’s almost orgasmic, the complexity of those flavours. “You’re me. _You’re me!_ ” Sherlock has truly solved the final problem, though he doesn’t know it yet. Sherlock thinks he can bring Jim to his knees, and he’s right. What he doesn’t know is that they’ve dug a couple’s grave, taking turns slinging the dirt. “Thank you. Sherlock Holmes…” Jim extends his right hand to Sherlock, touched, almost _honoured_ , really, that he can end his own life in the most satisfying way he’d dared to imagine. He’d granted himself a kernel of hope, sequestered deep in his own memory palace, playing through this moment exactly. He’d barely _dreamt_ that this would be the true outcome. To have Sherlock fend off his impending checkmate. To be met by a true equal. To be forced into the corner, stalemated. He’d barely let himself dream it. Yet here they were, Sherlock’s hand moving hesitantly to grasp his own. Jim was ready to taste blood for the last time. A perfect solution to the final problem. Fully immersed in the knowledge that he’d die and bring his equal down with him, Jim slipped his left hand under his jacket to find the cold metal of his gun. “Thank you. _Bless you._ As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out. Well, good luck with that.”

Instead of metal, his left hand meets flesh. Sherlock’s hands move quickly, his left restraining Jim’s outstretched wrist so recently enveloped in the warmth of what should have been their last ever human contact; his right is now swiftly twisting the gun up and pressing it into the top of Jim’s shoulder.

“Oh!” This was not how the scenario had gone in his mind. He should be dead now. His heart thrums in his ears, stunning him momentarily. In this version of the story, there’d been no need to play through the endless permutations. He was supposed to be dead now. Best to maintain the upper hand, feign control. “Isn’t this exciting! But you know if you shoot me, you’re only finishing what I started!” His voice is much more amused and taunting than the thoughts scanning rapidly through his mind. He doesn’t have time to go deeper, to predict the permutations of Sherlock’s moves and his own responses.

“You’ve miscounted the cards, Moriarty.” Sherlock’s eyes are locked onto Jim’s. Without any prior indication of movement, Sherlock shifts the gun down Moriarty’s arm to the thick muscles of his biceps, and pulls the trigger.

The shot rings clear through the cold air, but Jim doesn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of showing his surprise. Because he _is_ surprised, but Sherlock mustn’t know that. He keeps his face still, impassive, never breaking the stare. He feels the wetness begin to soak into his shirt, jacket, overcoat. “You know how I feel about my Westwood, Sherlock. Daddy’s had just about enough playtime now, his clothes are getting dirty. One last chance, Sherlock. Off you pop!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock muses, lips parted, and twists the barrel of the gun against the entrance wound in Jim’s shoulder, _hard_. “Call off the shooters.”

Waves of pain roll through Jim’s body, his knees beginning to buckle. “I can’t.” He feigns sincerity, but he knows Sherlock will see through it, see his desperation.

Fury sets into Sherlock’s jaw, and he shoves Jim to his knees. “Do you know, _James_ , what the most sensitive parts of the body are? The ones with the most nerve endings. The ones that the brain pays the most attention to. I know where those are. See?” Sherlock yanks Jim’s hand up by the wrist he’s still holding and fires the gun again. Jim watches the bullet pass through his palm as if it’s in slow motion. “Hands.” Sherlock pauses, pinches the fresh wound between finger and thumb. He brings the gun up in front of Jim’s face, drags the barrel gently over each eyelid, cheeks, lips, temples. “Forehead.” Sherlock pulls back and cracks the butt of his gun across the centre of Jim’s forehead, hard enough to open a nasty gash, but carefully prevents him from losing consciousness. The only thing that’s keeping Jim upright now is the hold Sherlock’s got on his bleeding hand. “Call off the shooters. I won’t ask again.”

Jim knows he’s running out of options. His mind is flailing; he’s dizzy with pain, he’s stunned by the blow to the head, and he’s bled a decent amount from the wound in his arm. Jim’s unaccustomed to needing to buy time; usually he’s the one selling. He tries one last time to grasp for a way out of this… out of ruining months of careful, attentive orchestration. He can’t let Sherlock win. He can’t let anyone get so close, so _close_ … But the anger in Sherlock’s eyes. The fierce defence, not of his own life, not really. Not even so much the lives of Watson, Lestrade, the fussy landlady. It was that at first. That ferocity that’s set in now, though, that’s about _his_ life. _Jim’s_ life. Ah.

“I see.” And he does. Sherlock’s not going to let either of them die, not today. “I see… okay.” He can feel his eyes getting glassy, saliva pooling behind his lip and under his tongue. The fall isn’t going to reach fruition today, not with Jim in this shape. Sherlock’s done it. _He got to me._ Jim feels himself relax into the pressure that’s still on his hand, moving his other hand into his jacket. _For now_.

That Sherlock doesn’t want him to die today… it dissolves on his tongue and coats his mouth. He needs time to play this one out, to fully understand his adversary’s motivations. This new flavour deserves time to age, he thinks. Perhaps he was a tad hasty in thinking that it was time for their dance to end.

“Show me the correspondence. Proof that the message you send them will call them off.” The gun’s buried in Jim’s oozing bicep, just enough threat of another shot to make Jim comply. There were always, of course, different possible outcomes, and Jim had needed the power to create the one he desired in the moment. Until told otherwise, the shooters would default to eliminating their targets unless the watch signaled that Sherlock had fallen. The codes had allowed him the liberty, the _nuance_ , of making the solution to their final problem a little trickier, a little bloodier, a little prettier.

But Sherlock has gotten to him. Understands that there are multiple codes and Jim’s method of escape would be triggered by one of them.

So Jim pulls up the document on his phone, decrypts it, and places it in Sherlock’s waiting hand. _HNDSM_. With a curt nod, Sherlock shoves the phone back toward Moriarty, swings around to kneel behind the bloody, dazed man, and presses the barrel of the gun into his ankle. Sherlock even goes so far as to rest his chin on the shoulder of Moriarty’s bleeding arm, turns his mouth to Jim’s ear and growls under his breath, “Shall we?”

“Let’s not get cocky, sweetheart.” A frail imitation of the power Jim had held mere moments ago.

For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty folds.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Jim most certainly doesn’t _cower_ on the rooftop for at least an hour after Sherlock leaves. No, he’s just _resting_ , that’s all. Letting himself bleed, in more ways than one. And he’s definitely not shocked numb by Sherlock’s distinctly un-angel-like behaviour. His eyes rest unfocused on the scattered pieces of his phone, crushed by Sherlock’s heel not long ago. He’d taken Jim’s gun.

Suddenly staying alive isn’t so boring after all. Not so _ordinary_ now that he’s glimpsed that defensive ferocity smoldering behind Sherlock’s eyes. Oh no. No, no, no…

This changes everything.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock rarely remembers feeling so _alive_.

He could’ve ended it there. He could’ve _won_. Popped off a shot or two into Moriarty’s head once the code had been sent.

It’s what Mycroft would have wanted. It’s what Lestrade would have done. It’s what any sane person would’ve done, really.

Good thing there hadn’t been any sane persons present. Such a person wouldn’t’ve caught the life fading from Moriarty’s eyes as he retracted the shooters’ orders. Sherlock had, and he’d revelled in it. He may not have killed James Moriarty, but for one miniscule yet infinite moment, he’d had control. And that one moment was all he needed.

Sherlock had considered killing Moriarty, but only briefly. Leaving Moriarty alive and with an understanding of Sherlock’s capability for undermining his power was far more tantalizing. Now the games could truly begin. No, letting Moriarty die had never truly been an option.

The arousal has started to fade from Sherlock’s body as he shuts the door behind him and steps into the flat. Eventually John and Lestrade are there, fussing loudly in his face. He says what he needs to say to make them go away, fingertips steepled under his nose, staring unseeing at the spot Moriarty had left his IOU apple not so long ago.

A fall, he’d said. I owe you a fall.

Sherlock lets himself bliss out, falling deep into his mind.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

“What the hell do you _mean_ there’s no code, Sherlock!” John had insisted on buffering Sherlock’s meeting with Mycroft. Sherlock understands that this is John’s way of protecting him, but mostly he’s just loud.

Mycroft’s eyes soften. “No, there isn’t, is there?”

The man with the key is king, and honey, you should _see me in a crown_. “His key is people. His manipulation of people. Nothing more.” Sherlock and Mycroft are engaged in a conversation of body language much subtler than John could begin to comprehend. Both brothers have fingertips pressed together, contemplative gazes searching the other for tells they’ve long since memorized. Sherlock simply lays out the foundations of it for John to get him to shut up. Sherlock squints just slightly. _You’re not nearly as surprised as you should be_.

Just a hint of guilt flits across Mycroft’s face. _He got to me._

So that’s why John insisted on being here. Sherlock processes this new information at lightning speed. Mycroft. Mycroft told Moriarty everything. Raised eyebrows. _You gave him the upper hand. I barely made it out of there alive_.

Mycroft’s face is carefully still. _It was necessary_.

An imperceptible nod. _Of course._

“Sod him. The arse! How could he--”

“It’s a game to him, John,” Sherlock cuts him off gently. “A game he had no intention of losing.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow. “It’s been two days.” _We don’t know where he is._

Exasperation pulls Sherlock’s eyes closed. _You lost him._ His jaw shifts forward in stubborn annoyance.

_You didn’t kill him when you had the chance._

Sherlock risks Mycroft’s wrath with a twitch of a smile.

_The game is on._


	2. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to adjust to a life without cases or Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be a good time to adhere to the additional tags.  
> Enjoy!

Six months after his would-be fall finds Sherlock in a London crack-den. He never could handle being wrong. This was no exception.

The game was most certainly, completely, and definitively _not_ on.

The high of The Final Problem and outwitting Moriarty had long since faded. His reputation was still shredded. Of course he understood that the Yard couldn’t entrust cases to him any longer. Lestrade’s own credibility had taken a hard hit when Sherlock’s fraudulence was made public, and he had to be careful. Mycroft had done his best to help, bless him. But his sense of fun had always been distinctly… _blander_ than Sherlock’s own. Less about the high, more about passing the time and obeying the rules.

Limbo sank its claws deep into Sherlock Holmes.

No number of violin compositions, chess victories, or anonymous solutions to online cases could fill the void.

Drugs came the closest. And so Sherlock had sold his hard-won soul back to the devil.

He’s shot, snorted, and smoked everything he can get his hands on in the last five months. He eats and sleeps when his body demands it… He’s never had any respect for his body anyway. It was nothing but a vessel for his mind, and he _was_ his mind. Every easy-to-find vein and several more difficult ones are peppered with needle-marks. His cheeks and eyes had passed hollow a few months back. His sense of smell is gone.

He lost track of the days around the 140 mark… it must be 190 by now. One hundred and ninety days since Sherlock walked off the rooftop of St. Bart’s Hospital, leaving his sole fulfilment behind. Breathing, but bloodied and beaten.

“Please. Please, add it to my tab. I’m good for it, you know that. I’ll pay you back. I always pay you back.”

“Your tab is done, Shezza. What part of ‘cash or ass’ do you not understand? I’m not having this conversation again.” Wes looks like he almost pities him in this moment. He starts to turn away. “Come find me when you can pay.”

_Empty_.

Five steps. It only takes Sherlock five of Wes’s steps to realize that he won’t make it through Day One Hundred Ninety (ish) without a high. Ten more steps to convince himself to say it. “Wait.” His voice is so desperate and raw and quiet that he almost thinks the dealer won’t have heard him. But as he clears his throat to try again, Wes slows, chuckling.

“Well, well, well. How the righteous fall.” He chuckles and turns to face Sherlock, who finds himself on his knees. “That’s how I like them, you know. You all think you’re in control, and you break yourselves before my very eyes. I never had to lay a hand on you, Shez. You asked for this. Isn’t that beautiful?” He’s there now, zipper in front of Sherlock’s face. One hand is on the back of his head, finding a fistful of greasy, matted curls. The other is palming his growing cock through his jeans. “So indignant, the first time I asked you, ‘cash or ass?’ For _years_ , my beautiful Shezza, you’ve come to me _begging_. Insisted that you’d never find yourself selling out for a high, you just needed time. To think, I’ve been missing out on _this_. You on your knees for me. Here you are, practically begging me to fuck your throat. I bet you’ll even like it.”

Suddenly the zipper is open and Wes’s cock is there, and Sherlock tries to pull away in panic, but the hand in his hair tightens threateningly. “I don’t think so, sweet. Open those pretty lips.”

Sherlock opens. Sticky, salty, soft, firm, bitter, slippery. He can’t think, he can’t _think_. All he knows is that this is what it takes. If this is what it takes…

Wes’s cock is heavy on his tongue. The dealer is gripping both sides of Sherlock’s head now, but he’s not moving.

“Well?”

Oh. _I have to do this. He’s not going to do it for me. I have to do this_. Wes’s eyes are on him, as if he knows exactly what’s going on behind Sherlock’s tearful eyes. _He wants me to break._

Sherlock’s chapped lips seal softly around the intrusion. His tongue swirls gently along the underside of Wes’s dick, and he starts to move his head. Slowly, nose towards the curls of pubic hair. Slowly, pull back away. Tongue around the head. The glans is the most sensitive part. That will help. That will make this go faster. What else?

Sherlock moves his hands up to Wes’s hips, both steadying himself and pulling his jeans and pants down just a little. He fits a hand between skin and fabric… testicles are sensitive. The perineum is sensitive. If he can just find the right way to touch there…

Wes lets a small moan slip. Sherlock reasons that he must be doing something right. The male physiological reaction to sexual pleasure is increased hardness and secretion of pre-ejaculatory fluid. There’s that, and the sounds Wes is making. The fingers are tightening in his hair, and the hips start to twitch forward when Sherlock dips his head forward, takes Wes as far in as he can.

There’s a grunt, and all at once Sherlock finds himself out of control. The hardness is hitting the back of his throat, hard and fast and with purpose. The hands are forcing his face onto the cock. Sherlock finds himself gripping the thighs with both hands, hanging on for dear life. His eyes have gone from watering to streaming full tears down his face and neck. He’s got no choice but to let his jaw go a little slack and try to relax his throat against the gags.

The final thrusts are violent and spastic. Hot bitterness explodes in his mouth and behind his eyes.

Wes eventually slows and softens. But for some reason it’s still in his mouth. There’s a sharp tug on Sherlock’s hair. “Clean up your mess, Shezza.” Oh. He swallows thickly, once, twice. Sucks and licks the last bit of ejaculate from Wes’s dick.

Now there’s a packet in his hand and Wes is crouching in front of him, inserting the syringe end of a needle into Sherlock’s still-slack mouth. He stands up abruptly and turns away.

“See you tomorrow, Shezza.”

___________________________________________________________________________

Sherlock is usually obsessively particular about mixing his 7% solution. Today, though, he knows he needs to go deeper. His usual shot of 7% won’t cut it for where he needs to go today. Wes’s packet should’ve bought him two highs and a bit to tuck away for later, but today it’s only worth one. Caution to the wind, as the colloquialism goes. Consider it thrown.

Very few deductions make it through to Sherlock’s consciousness as he mixes. This high is his last hope. He’s desperately shaky as he pulls back the syringe plunger and taps the bubbles to the surface. Gently pressing the plunger forward with the needle up in the air, Sherlock holds his breath. Not a drop to waste, not today. Just enough pressure to bring a bead to the tip. _Like pre-ejaculate on Wes’s… no, not relevant. Not now._

Now where to put it? The veins in his arms are long since useless. Sherlock’s well aware that if he uses his typical spot between his toes, it’ll barely hit him. He knows what he has to do, and surrenders the shred of dignity Wes left behind. He edges his bony hips out of his trousers and leans back against the rotting wood wall. Before he can think about it, Sherlock fingers out the vein between his groin and left thigh: puncture, slide, _push_.

To hell with dignity; it’s not worth a wasted moment of a high this good to pull his trousers back up.

He’s sinking into his memory palace now. Of late he’s descended the stairs only to the level on which he finds pleasant memories and people, such as Redbeard, John, Lestrade, and Molly. Now he barely hesitates on that landing, and turns to descend further. Here he knows Mummy and Daddy await him, tedious but warm. Not today. No amount of warmth is right for today. Down, down, past Mycroft and old headmasters, past childhood beatings, faint recollections of overdoses and illnesses. Down. Deeper than he’s been since the night after the pool…

The bottom. The centre of his consciousness and being.

The walls down here are mildewy and stained. There’s little of note, except a door segmented out of the wall with a tiny, wired window. Sherlock doesn’t bother to stop and peer inside; he knows exactly who’s there and he knows he wants in regardless of the consequences.

Sherlock pushes open the door to Moriarty’s padded room. Steps inside. Bolts the door behind him.


	3. A Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to visit Jim deep in his memory palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! :D

The rich, sing-songing voice envelops Sherlock immediately.

“How kind of you to finally stop by.”

Jim Moriarty is pristine in cream and charcoal grey, shoes shining, not a hair out of place. He shoulders away from the far wall, hands deep in pockets.

“How’s life upstairs for the big man, _Sherlock Holmes_?” Jim bites his lip, dark eyes raking over Sherlock’s wasted body. “Looking good, feeling good, are we? The angular, boney look really does it for you, Sherlock. The life is positively _oozing_ out of you, isn’t it?” He gestures broadly, fingers wide, encompassing Sherlock Holmes’s burned out glory with a flare of snarky jazz-hands.

Sherlock swallows dryly and takes a breath to steady himself. He knows Jim’s right; the mucky track pants and threadbare windbreaker that once hugged his frame now drape grossly. Self-consciousness previously abandoned in favour of chasing the next high floods through Sherlock’s awareness. He’s revolting. So far gone from himself, and the way back is almost completely obscured by the drugs, near-starvation, and tedium that have comprised his existence for months.

Self-disgust aside, Sherlock has no one to impress at present.

“I won’t be undone by you.” It’s weak, and he knows it.

“Ohh, Sherlock. This was always your undoing.” In any other context, Jim’s voice could have been taken as soft, almost sweet: it’s quietly venomous. “You never needed me to make you fall, Sherlock. Admittedly, the _splat_ would’ve been more gratifying. But you taught me _patience,_ Sherlock Holmes. You never needed me to take you apart. You’ve done an excellent job of _that_ one all on your own!”

Sherlock turns away, pressing his hands and forehead against the door. Close eyes. Deep, steady breaths. Focus. Take in every detail. The door is padded with sickly yellowed upholstery, stickied by months’ worth of sweat and sebum.

A little deeper, a little more confident this time. “No.” Ragged fingernails dig crescents into the wall.

“Oh _yes,_ darling. I _own_ you.” Jim’s intense yet relaxed, completely unconcerned by Sherlock digging in his heels. “It’s been beautiful watching you destroy yourself. And yes, I _have_ been watching, you know. It simply wouldn’t do for Daddy to lose track of his favourite plaything.”

Sherlock digs up the courage to turn and face his adversary. Exhaustion claws at him as he tries to draw himself up, to channel intention and would-be competence. _Should’ve done a speedball, stupid_ , Mycroft calls sharply from the back of his brain.

“I can, perhaps, concede that your influence on me has begun bordering on control, though ownership is a tad self-indulgent, don’t you think?”

“Mmm, there he is. Made it all the way up to _three_ -syllable words!” The mockery in Jim’s voice grates Sherlock’s pride. If nothing else, he’d still had his intellect through these last months. It hadn’t been much use, deducing white and black from infinite grey, but he’d had it.

Sherlock spits viperously through gritted teeth. “You have no power here, Moriarty. This is _my mind_ , and you are done wreaking havoc in it.”

Jim laughs now, a real, head-thrown-back, deep laugh. “You’re _serious_?” He gestures wildly with both hands, twirling playfully before landing back with his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, eyes full of mirth. “Look where we _are_ , Sherlock! This is _you_. This is your conscience speaking, Sherlock Holmes! _I am YOU._ Sure, all you give me is this little padded box, but I’m still me! I’m still here, in your mind, doing whatever I please. I can make you dance!” Jim sweeps up Sherlock’s hand in his, pressing a hand to his waist and moving rhythmically to silent music. Crazed eyes glower up into cold, determined ones, locked in conflict as they dance (surprisingly gracefully, Sherlock notes, all things considered) around the tiny room.

Sherlock lets Jim lead for a handful of moments before suddenly flicking his hand under Jim’s, grabbing his wrist. He begins loosening the onyx and white gold cufflink, lets it fall and tinkle across the floor. Still grasping Jim’s wrist lightly, Sherlock shifts their dance, claiming lead with a hand on Jim’s waist, forcing Jim’s to settle on his shoulder. “Oh, certainly, you can try to _make_ me dance out there. But in here? The music’s all mine.” Sherlock gently but firmly increases their pace, eyes never wavering from Jim’s. Sherlock lets his thumb settle on Jim’s pulse. It’s unwavering… of course it is, in here, in Sherlock’s mind. Because that’s who Jim is, isn’t it? Changeable, _insane_ , but altogether collected, difficult to intimidate.

Sherlock knows full well that he could take control back permanently by simply altering his stored version of Moriarty. There’s something here, though, something worth keeping… Altering the dance with Jim Moriarty in here would mean altering it _out there_. And even though it’s been half a year since they went head-to-head, Sherlock lets himself hold the smallest sliver of hope that it’s not over. If it’s over, what’s the point of trying to lead the dance at all? He could just let himself fall. _Off you pop._

Mind-palace-Jim feels Sherlock shrinking away from confidence and begins pushing against Sherlock’s lead, but doesn’t move to change the position of their arms. “You’d never change me, darling. To change _me_ is to change _us_. You couldn’t if you tried.”

He’s letting Jim slow the pace down again, Sherlock realizes belatedly. It doesn’t matter. The meaning behind his presence here is slipping, the intention in his movements melting. His leading hand falls to Jim’s hip and he hangs his head in shame; he’s _clutching_ at James Moriarty, deeper in his own mind than he should ever have gone out of desperation, with so little thought.

The words fall out from between his lips before he’s even aware he’s thinking them. “My life is meaningless without you.” Then there are tears, not from gagging, as before, but from _sentiment_. Sherlock lets his forehead rest down on Jim’s shoulder, fingers twisting painfully in the silky charcoal fabric of his suit jacket.

Moriarty is stiff at first, as if caught unawares. Cautiously, then, he lets his arms wrap around Sherlock’s ribcage. It’s almost a hug and could easily be mistaken as such, but the fingers and palms push too hard, bruising, squeezing until bones grate. Sherlock vaguely and distantly realizes, as if observing from outside himself, that his body has probably stopped breathing. Jim’s lips settle softly against his neck as Sherlock heaves in an attempt to sob air into his burning lungs. Sherlock can feel Jim’s mouth smile and part to release a heady sigh. It’s bordering on intimate now, as Sherlock’s neck heats with the moisture from Jim’s breath, but he knows Jim’s black eyes are wide open, burning with malice as he wrings the life out of Sherlock. The closeness of Jim’s breath and the softness of his tone belying his actions and poisonous words; “Just let _go_ , Sherlock. Just die already. It’s alright. Well… I mean, it’s boring, but I understand. No sense in living without purpose, living without little old _meee._ ”

Sherlock bites down on Jim’s shoulder, body panicking from the lack of air, but his mind is calm, blissfully calm and numb, for the first time since… he can’t remember if there was a last time. Maybe for the first time ever. This isn’t just a high, he understands now. This is a farewell to his adversary and singular equal. This is his way out.

“That’s it, love.” Smooth, sweet, dark Moriarty, easing Sherlock down onto his back now, crushing sternum and windpipe with the entirety of his weight. He leans down, black eyes full of furious glee and… is that affection? Jim bites Sherlock’s lip till it’s bleeding freely. Sherlock hasn’t breathed in at least 90 seconds. Jim’s grinning lazily, abandoning his crushing of Sherlock’s chest and neck in favour of cradling his face, watching the blood ooze into Sherlock’s mouth and down his cheek. Who needs breathing anyway? Sherlock’s got the only thing he’s ever needed; Jim Moriarty is easing him lovingly into death’s hold, telling him it’s okay to let the numb take over. He feels the flat of Jim’s tongue soothe a trickle of blood off his cheek, stroking gently across his bleeding lip, and sinks deeply into the greedy kiss that follows. It’s electric; brain deprived of oxygen, lights popping and fading sporadically in his vision, surrendering his life and death to Jim Moriarty’s mouth and tongue.


	4. What the Hell, Sherlock?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim deals with his injuries and begins contemplating his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, sorry for the wait on this one. I was busy digging myself out of the "Shoot Jim in the Hand" hole. At least it's a longer one. Enjoy! Comments always welcome.
> 
> The following takes place on the day Sherlock and Jim meet on the hospital rooftop, 6 months prior to Sherlock’s overdose.

There is no protocol in place for this situation.

On an ordinary mission, Jim would simply have called in his second, Moran, to mop up his mess and to implement the necessary cover stories and causes of death. The snipers would have whisked away all traces of their presence and shots, collected payment from Moran, and disappeared. Jim would’ve slipped away to revel in a job well done, but not for long. He’d have been chasing the next rush by now, following through on intricate orchestrations, gently tugging and weaving his web to suit his fancy.

This is far from ordinary.

Jim barely has to think any more about how to avoid the intrusive surveillance of the elder Holmes, which proves useful, because he’s buzzed yet disconnected, making his way through winding London backstreets. He keeps his head down, shoulders hunched, trying to avoid the inevitable attention gleaned by bleeding profusely in public. Having managed to escape excessive scrutiny by passersby and confirm he isn’t being followed, Jim slips through a deliberately ordinary inset doorway. He bolts the lock, pauses for several moments to listen for sounds both in and outside the building, and, finding none, relaxes at last.

He owns the whole set of flats, pays a discrete sum to have them considered condemned by the city, keeps them empty, but maintains them well enough so that they appear lived-in to prevent squatters and junkies from nesting in, around, or nearby. Of course a few locals have noticed the lack of residents coming and going, but in this relatively-shabby part of town, they’re easy enough to buy off. In order to maintain his privacy, he’s got several buildings and houses like this, as well as a whole team dedicated to protecting his whereabouts, right down to slitting the throats of anyone who gets too close.

_Too close_.

Jim trudges to the top of the stairs and unlocks the sole furnished flat. He’s never really considered it to be a _home_ , per se, but on an occasion where he’s badly injured, shaken, and baffled, there’s nowhere else he’d even consider going.

Nothing about digging a bullet out of his arm with a shot-through hand is appealing, but Jim quickly vetoes the few other possibilities. Moran, regardless of how trustworthy he’s proven himself, can’t be allowed to see Moriarty in such a position of compromise. It’d been established long ago that _Moriarty_ is untouchable, even if _Jim_ isn’t. No one, especially not his poised-to-take-over second-in-command, can be allowed near him in person until he’s healed and back on top. Anyone he asked for help would have to be killed afterward, and that meant getting his hands dirty.

_Dirtier_. Dirtied with his _own_ blood today, for the first time in a decade or more. A beautiful suit, ruined, courtesy of Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. Jim grimaces, plucking at the expensive fabric, glued by drying blood to his wound. Little else to be done… he pinches through the layers of jacket and shirt, and rips it away from the skin in one stomach-turning motion. No point in undoing the buttons… the suit’s trashed anyways; Jim simply grips his lapel and rips it open. Buttons pop across the sink and floor as he shrugs out of the shirt and jacket. The bullet-hole is bleeding freely again, clot torn away.

Jim glares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s come back to himself enough now to be _angry_. Intrigued? Even excited? Absolutely. But seething nonetheless. And now he has to decide which wound to deal with first. Stop the bleeding from his hand but limit his dexterity, making removing the bullet in his arm more difficult? Or let it keep bleeding and fucking _hurting_?

Fuck it.

He douses his hand in peroxide, grits his teeth and pinches around the hole to push the bones around, ensuring they’re set correctly. Peers inside the seeping wound as he flushes it with water, pulls bone fragment out with tweezers. Fuck. It’s worse than he’d originally thought… torn muscles, probably ligaments and tendons, too. Mobility… middle and ring fingers are twitchy and numb. He sighs, tilting his head back with closed eyes, more out of exasperation than pain. He’ll need a doctor. He’ll need surgery. There’s no way around it.

For now, he dries the wound, drowns it in polysporin, and wraps it as tightly as he can, padded with gauze and secured with a tensor bandage.

Jim sighs, glaring at the immobile fingers, frustrated by the difficulty they pose to digging a bullet out of his arm with forceps. _Why’d you have to get me on both sides, Sherlock? Couldn’t you have picked ONE arm to riddle with bullets?_ He digs his lighter out of his trouser pocket and lights it under the long tweezers. He angles his left arm at the mirror, breathes slowly.

Jim pauses, catching his own eyes in the mirror. He’s sweating, pupils blown, saliva dripping from the corners of his panting mouth.

All this is new, so completely and utterly new. New experiences, brought directly to him by Sherlock Holmes. One side of his mouth quirks up.

Jim turns his attention to his bloodied arm and digs in.

* * *

 

221B is carefully monitored by Jim’s people even in the most average of circumstances. The night after Moriarty was almost killed by its more obnoxious occupant is certainly no exception. Skilled spies disappear into the backdrop, masquerading as pickpockets and petty small-time crack dealers. Virtually undetectable, except by the likes of Sherlock Holmes; Jim is well aware of the risk he takes, hiding his people out in the open like this when the person they’re watching is more than capable of deducing their existence, purpose, employer. But if Sherlock knows about the eyes glued to him every time he steps outside his front door, he’s given no indication, and certainly not tried to do anything about it.

Mycroft Holmes is also something of a worry. His surveillance are more obvious than Jim’s; they live or work in places Sherlock can commonly be found, and they’re loyal almost to a fault. Jim does what he can to ensure that his spies don’t tangle with Mycroft’s; he pays better than Mycroft could ever hope to, and the network is managed by people he trusts. Besides, Sherlock’s stiff-lip of a brother has already exhausted his resources trying to get at Moriarty, which allows a certain degree of freedom on Jim’s part.

It’s never a certain thing, but in general, Moriarty can afford to take calculated risks.

Which is what he does today, when a deliberately slow pickpocket leads John Watson in chase down an alley a handful of blocks from Baker Street. He’s gagged, bound, and manhandled into a waiting car.

* * *

 

John Hamish Watson, M.D. is no fool. He cannot, however, grapple intellectually or strategically with the likes of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, and come out on top.

It is with this notion which John bludgeons himself once he’s given up struggling and is thinking somewhat rationally again.

He’s lying bound on the floor in the back seat of a nice-but-not-too-nice, smelly SUV, and has been a good 15 minutes by now. There’s been no talking. The “pickpocket” had simply gotten him tied up and shoved him into the car, which was driven away by an as of yet unseen driver. At least they’d tossed his wallet in after him.

At some point they merge onto a highway. They’ve barely gotten going when the car pulls off to the side. The driver exits, rounds to the rear, and opens the tailgate. John hears rustling, and… whining? Slurping? What the hell…? Then there’s the smell of raw beef, and it becomes abundantly clear to John that not only is he being transported along with a dog, but said dog is being fed a steak dinner while John himself is being treated like luggage.

Nothing about the dark surroundings feels familiar to John, but he’s got the vague sense that they’re headed east-ish, and apparently making a decent run of it. They’ve reaccelerated and there’s the cloying scent of meat and dog and road trip.

An hour or so later, John finds himself being hauled up onto the seat by Moriarty himself.

“To get the obvious out of the way, yes, it’s me, Big Bad Moriarty. Yes, I kidnapped you, and if you ever tell _anyone_ that _any_ of this happened, a whole lot of people you love will die. If you give Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes any reason to suspect something happened, _everyone_ will die. If you don’t cooperate, they’ll die. Sherlock will die. That newest _girl_ friend of yours… Tessa, isn’t it? She’ll die. Harry will die. That one will be messy, I think. Are you catching my drift? Surely even _you_ could understand by now, John Watson. Be a dear, keep this to yourself, won’t you?” John swallows audibly around the gag and gives one curt nod, glowering into Moriarty’s black eyes with his own tear-brimmed blues. “Good. Very good. Now. Unfortunately, Bruno’s got himself into a bit of a pickle. A whole steak, T-bone, left out of the fridge a little too long, so I tossed it in the trash and he got to it, poor boy. Ate the whole damn plastic bag, too. Best get him to the vet, wouldn’t you say? I’m going to untie you now, and you’re going to cooperate, because if I can’t tell my men not to shoot by morning, they shoot.” His voice is calm and soft, explaining the dog’s ailment with such sincerity, John would’ve believed him had he not known who and what this man is.

He’s silent and still as he’s untied, and says nothing as they lead the muscly Rottweiler across the parking lot and into the animal hospital. Says nothing as Moriarty explains tearfully what’s happened to his ‘precious baby boy’. Says nothing as they settle into uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

There’s no one else around, so John Watson and Jim Moriarty sit in a silence as far as can be from companionable. No need to keep up appearances. They wait.

Moriarty springs up when the vet returns, listens intently to the results of the preliminary exam, and then follows the vet into the room to ‘help Bruno stay as comfortable as possible’ while he’s anaesthetized for x-rays and surgery. John rolls his eyes at the whole façade, hunching further into his chair.

When Moriarty returns, the pretense is dropped. He’s as slimy and efficient as usual, gesturing briskly for John to follow. They walk quickly and quietly past the door Moriarty had entered with the vet. _Surgery 1_. To the end of the hallway. Moriarty fumbles slightly as he picks the lock to _Surgery 2_ with his gloved hands.

“Gather everything you need for minor surgery.” John just stares at him open-mouthed. Surgery? “ _Now,_ and quickly. No anaesthetic.” John shakes his head and moves.

* * *

 

Jim’s had to be a little more forceful with this whole situation than he’s particularly interested in. Why’d Sherlock have to shoot him through the middle of his fucking _palm_ , of all the places he could’ve chosen? He pulls a chair up next to the surgical bench while John’s started riffling through drawers and cabinets. Settles himself.

“Show me.” John’s suddenly there beside him, business-like air starting to mask his anger and indignation.

Jim loosens his fingers from his driving gloves, uncovers the bandage, and begins to unwind it. John catches his hand firmly but with care, wiping away the excess of polysporin with the gauze pads.

There’s little of note on the doctor’s face while he begins to work. It figures that he would’ve heard Sherlock’s narrative of the day’s events by now. Jim relaxes into the pain, stares unseeing at the hole in his hand. He’d known John would comply, but the ease with which he’s cooperating was interesting. He’d’ve been terrified out of his wits this afternoon, then. Putting Sherlock back in harm’s way is not an option for him at this point. Performing illicit surgery on Sherlock’s nemesis is a reasonable price.

Jim’s startled out of his analyses when John speaks. “Why no anaesthetic? Not even local? It’s not like it’ll let me overpower you.” John hasn’t paused or looked up. Strictly curiosity, then. He’s not asking Jim to change his mind.

Jim huffs out a little laugh and cracks his neck side-to-side. He’ll indulge, even if for no better reason than making John squirm. “Choosing to experience this kind of pain makes me better at withstanding it during… interrogation. Mycroft’s people don’t exactly play nice, you know. Besides, the endorphins make sure it’s not entirely unpleasant.”

John just hums acknowledgement, says nothing more. After several minutes of silence, when Jim’s certain that John is following through properly, he lets himself sink just a little into his thoughts. No better time to dissect the man who almost killed you than when his flatmate is sewing your hand up.


	5. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to report. -H

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter changed its mind about 6 times when I was writing it, but I think it's finally gotten its shit together.  
> I wrote most of this while making my way through a bottle of wine, so there's an alternative idea waiting for you at the end.  
> Enjoy!  
> Comments and feedback welcome, as always.

Jim sets down his whiskey and absently pushes thumb into palm, the pressure just shy of popping stitches. This decision doesn’t sit well, and probably won’t until the plane’s off the ground.

It’s not the first time he’s had to get out of London in a hurry. Of course there’ve been a number of threats to his life over the years. Comes with the territory; breaks the grey. Gives him someone new to toy with and eventually kill. Escape routes and bolt holes and quick thinking are nothing short of foundational.

It had simply been a matter of selecting the right plan.

But what’s the right plan when 36 hours ago, he’d been prepared, _ready_ , even, to taste gunpowder and lead?

There’ll be a price on his head by now, which complicates things. Though he’s publically and officially been cleared of all his crimes, Sherlock Holmes knows how he did it, which means Mycroft Holmes knows how he did it. He can’t afford a play into Mycroft’s hands, not now. Not when he’s the closest he’s been to vulnerability in more than ten years. Even one day in the city to get things settled and put his cover story in motion had been a gamble.

Washington, D.C… A city in its criminal infancy. Jim’s more than capable of nursing its flicker of corruption to a gruesome blaze, and he intends to enjoy himself doing it.

Not forever. But long enough to firmly anchor a web and situate himself just off-centre. He won’t be the face of this one. He won’t be _Moriarty_. It’ll all be under his control, and he’ll reap the fruits. But he can’t be everywhere; such a young network will need stability he can’t provide, and London…

London’s where Sherlock is.

Jim scoffs at himself and drains his glass. Smacks it down on the table a little harder than he means to, startling an attendant to scurry toward him with the decanter. He pours generously and turns to retreat, but Jim’s got other ideas.

“Why don’t you join me?”

Jim knows he can’t decline; he reels him in with a merciless stare and a soft parting of lips that barely passes for a smile. Now he’s got fine Irish whiskey and a gorgeous boy to intimidate. This’ll pass the time very nicely, he thinks.

* * *

_Nothing to report. -H_

Frustration washes through him, but years of violent discipline keep it off his face and out of his posture. He rips his eyes from the text message and tucks the phone away.

“Stop. Keep him awake, for now.”

Jim’s been fixated on bagging this fucker for two weeks, and now that he’s got him, he needs to focus.

It hadn’t taken long for Alan Griffiths to make a name for himself in DC. An ambitious, crafty young Englishman with too much aggression and too little patience, Griffiths had embedded himself into every nook and cranny the district tries to hide from itself, and began establishing a reputation with members of government, drug rings, law firms, gangs.

Jim’s just arrived, and is standing directly opposite Griffiths, whose shoulders are dislocated by hanging from his wrists for too long.

He twiddles his fingers mockingly. “Jacob Morris. Hi.” He’s become irrationally fond of the initials JM, but the smooth Irish accent is gone in favour of a more discrete Californian tone.

Griffiths sputters bloodily, “P-please… I’ll give you --”

Jim rolls his eyes, cutting off the pathetic plea. “Don’t. We both know you’re smarter than that, and begging’s not going to get you anywhere.” He paces forward, keeping his air neutral in spite of mounting irritation. “Now, you’re going to cooperate with me if you want to keep building your cute little criminal organization. You need me, and you have what I want. You have the connections and the brutality. I have the tact and the intellect.” Griffiths sneers at that and spits blood across the room, where it lands just shy of Jim’s carefully shined Oxfords.

Jim’s intent gaze doesn’t waiver. “You’ve noticed by now the lack of permanent injury?” He waits until Griffiths nods sharply. “We’re going to keep it that way, as long as you’re willing to negotiate a… working relationship. I have a few terms.”

Anger, disbelief, exhaustion, hope, and resignation flash through Griffiths’ gaze as he finally meets Jim’s eyes, black in the dim of the warehouse.

“Good. Bring him down, Nel. Patch him up and send him to me." He turns sharply, and is gone without a second glance.

* * *

_Nothing to report. –H_

Fuck.

Griffiths is exactly what DC needs. The epitome of boiled-over hostility, he’s learned to bridle his anger to get what he wants. All Jim has to do is point him in the right direction. They get on quite well, now that Griffiths understands who’s truly on top here; it hadn’t taken long for them to sort out a mutually beneficial agreement. The beginnings of a network have practically built themselves.

In short, Jacob Morris’ job is not very interesting, and Jim Moriarty is _fucking bored_.

“Hmmmm?” He tears himself out of the haze, realizing belatedly that Griffiths has been spewing some idea at him. “Say that again.”

Griffiths just huffs and resigns himself to Jim’s superiority. “We need to bring in Eric Serra --”

“I’ll take it.” Jim holds his hand out expectantly for the file the bigger man is clutching, but sweaty fingers just grip it tighter.

“But, boss, you said not to involve you in interrogations. I’ll give it to Nel, I just need…”

Jim stares at him as if willing his head to explode. Griffiths’ eyes widen slightly, and he places the file into the waiting hand.

“Thank you. You may go.”

* * *

Jim fast-tracks Griffiths’ plan, taking only a couple days to stake out, bring in, and torture Serrano, putting an upper-level White House advisor deep in his pocket.

The whole thing is significantly bloodier than necessary. Serrano is simply a politician, no juicy military secrets here; he probably would’ve folded with mere threats of violence. Jim, however, is hungry for playtime, and goes so far as to suck his fingers clean of hot blood while the tortured man sits frozen in his predatory scrutiny.

The hour turns over and his phone buzzes. Jim takes a moment to wipe his fingers, menacingly gentle, across Serrano’s trembling jaw, then steps back to check his phone.

_Nothing to report. –H_

Eyes blazing, Jim inspects the edge of his knife, and draws out a delicious scream with a slice down the inner thigh.

He’d forgotten how beautiful blood could be.

* * *

It’s simply preventative, strategic, really, to receive hourly updates on the whereabouts and activities of one Sherlock Holmes.

Sentiment’s got nothing to do with it.

Jim settles in to his desk with Bach and a stiff drink, reanalyzing (he’s certainly _not_ reminiscing, thank you very much) his last encounters with Sherlock Holmes. Sonata Number 1 for solo violin. Sherlock’s fingers playing gracefully over the strings, holding his bow just so. Tapping out Jim’s ‘code’ against his cold skin, which Jim would touch so soon. Jim, discovering Sherlock’s belief in the code’s existence, reveling in the euphoria and disappointment of having bested his only true competitor. Not a near-silent creak of a stair escaped Sherlock, let alone Jim’s reach for his gun. Sherlock had taken a misstep, certainly, but he’d made Jim follow.

Jim’s fingers are on the bright pink scar on his hand, reliving Sherlock’s cool handshake and violent fury, when his phone lights up silently.

Jim tries to school himself against the excitement that surges through him, but his lip catches between his teeth, and breathing becomes secondary.

Harley’s report on Sherlock is seventeen minutes early. Forty-three minutes ago, she’d relayed the detective’s tense pacing in 221B Baker St. Before that, he’d been staring, unmoving, at his shot-up wall for three full hours. None of the usual attempts to quench the boredom.

That in itself had been curious, and now, an unprecedented early update. It’s been three and a half weeks, and Sherlock’s decided to do something interesting. _Finally_.

He snatches the phone up greedily, as if the desk has offended him by withholding it. It may as well have, because what he finds there is exactly what he’s been waiting for.

_He’s purchased heroin. -H_

Before he realizes it’s there, a moan rips through Jim’s throat. He chose heroin over cocaine… pleasure over mental stimulation. “Good, Sherlock. Very good.” He closes his eyes and _tastes_ the power he has over Sherlock Holmes.

_Keep me updated. - JM_

_Yes, sir. -H_

Twenty-three minutes pass. Jim’s eyes don’t leave his phone. His belly is already hot with arousal; he lets himself experience Sherlock’s desperation, knowing intimately the anticipatory calm that comes with the decision to do something one is resolutely _not supposed to do._

Moriarty, of course, doesn’t abide by anything so pedestrian as _supposed to_ ’s. The morals of _ordinary_ people have been rubbing off on Sherlock, though, and he’s been making a pitifully boring attempt at having a conscience.

All Jim had to do was step back and let Sherlock grow restless, watch him disintegrate under the weight of _nothingness_.

_He’s home. Shot the usual dose. Left arm. -H_

Jim’s eyes fall shut, his tongue softly rolling over his bottom lip. Sherlock Holmes is high because Jim wants him to be. He envisions Sherlock falling into bliss, the tension fading from his forehead. He wonders what games the two of them play, deep in Sherlock’s mind. That _stunning_ mind. _At my mercy_.

Finally, finally, Jim’s careful self-control dissolves, and his hips roll up to press the thick line of his cock into his palm. Ecstasy explodes behind his eyes as he slips out of his pants and into Sherlock’s rush.

Hot skin and panting breath give way to the first climax Jim’s been able to coax from his body since leaving London.

If it occurs to him that Sherlock’s hold on him is as great as Jim’s on Sherlock, he’ll carry the thought to his grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively, 
> 
> He do a killy kill and then jacks it  
> But he no can cum  
> He anger  
> And do another killy kill  
> Blood blood  
> Small amount of bye bye away from the jack it  
> Blood blood as lubey loob  
> Still no worky work cum cum  
> smad


	6. You, Me, and Our Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drunk Jim receives an update on Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, friends. I was sick, then I was hurt, then life got away from me while I tried to play catch-up.  
> This is a teeny, tiny update, and for that I apologize, but it's a juicy little bit that I have come to love.  
> Big things are coming!

Over the course of the next couple months, Jim advises Grif on the movement of weapons and drugs. They’re expanding now, establishing shipping operations in Baltimore and Charlotte. It’s beginning to grow beyond the torture-and-blackmail-and-extortion phase. Part of Jim mourns that, but at least things are starting to become complex; once the foundations are laid, the real fun will start. Soon they’ll be moving onto the smuggling of human beings, willing or otherwise. It will expand beyond domestic movement to international deals. More and more factors will come into play; more and more pieces will fall into place.

Jim can feel it coming together. He doesn’t consciously think about every step all the time, of course. He’s spent plenty of time crafting each move in his mind palace. The map is laid out for him when he slips deep into his consciousness, a How-To guide for building an empire. It’s beautiful, cunning, power-laden, and it’s nearly perfect. Nearly.

A singular flaw: he’s done all this before. Sure, it’s a little different this time. Moulding a protégé of sorts, understanding the _magnificent_ fuckery of American politics…

“Everyone’s so terribly _ordinary_ over here, Sherlock. You’d hate it. Except maybe not, you do seem to enjoy your pet…” He’s mumbling into a tumbler of whiskey, a little drunker than he should be, Irish whetting the edges of his careful Californian timbre. “Do you ever think about killing them, just because you could? After Carl Powers, it was just a game, Sherlock. Never quite as good as ours, of course. Fooling them was never as fun as fooling _you_.” He drains his glass and inspects the bottom.

_He didn’t take it home this time. He’s staying at the den where he bought—not the usual one. He’s snorted a line, and some junkie’s sticking a shot of heroin between his toes. -H_

Jim stares unseeing at the swimming letters and spaces and dots. The novelty of Sherlock getting high had been short lived; it was happening every other day at this point. “Just imagine it. Our world… we wouldn’t need whiskey or heroin or cocaine.”

He abandons glass in favour of bottle, wincing as he takes a deep, burning pull.

_Does the Iceman know where he is? –JM_

“Just you, me, and our minds. Some blood, probably.”

_No, boss. –H_

Sherlock plans to escalate his usage then. He’d let Mycroft stick someone to his shoe up until this point, but he knows that Mycroft will stop him if he goes beyond a certain point. Evidently mixing and being injected by some random user crosses that line. Sloppy, Mycroft. _Do I have to do everything myself?_


	7. Inside Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whispers of the name Moriarty are circulating DC, and a furious Jim has a mess to clean up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ya go, friendlies!  
> I'm getting excited... more to come soon!  
> Comments welcome as always :)  
> Also, by the by, I can be found on tumblr here!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doctoralicefuriosa

Jim smirks, delighted by the nervous cringe on Grif’s face. He’s spent the last two days mastering the balisong knife he’d found in the pocket of one of Nel’s conquests. His hands and fingers are beginning to heal the delicate ribbons of cuts he’d acquired in the first few hours. Normally he wouldn’t bother with such a trivial toy, but this one has the advantage of making Griffiths _very_ uncomfortable. Besides, he needs to keep working on the dexterity of his right hand after its run-in with Sherlock Holmes. He’s burned the hours flipping the knife up and watching how it responds to each flick of his wrist, marrying its weight with perfect force.

Mostly he watches Nel work, imagines the knife twisting through flesh rather than air. She’s so much more methodical than Jim had been with Serrano. She’s elegant where he’d been hungry, allowing himself to become chaotic. He’s admiring her grace and restraint, twirling his knife between his fingers, when there’s a snap between his eyes. He turns with exaggerated patience to Grif, letting the blade bury itself in the packed earth.

“Yes, Griffiths?” The bigger man visibly flinches at the rare usage of his full name. _This better be good_.

“Sorry, boss. You uh… you didn’t seem to hear me.” He shuffles anxiously, sidestepping with body and words. “We, umm, we--”

“WHAT?!” His voice echoes through the warehouse, even managing to snag the attention of Nel’s latest bleeder. Jim distantly feels his fury; he’s snarling, eyes blazing. He finds himself with the balisong back in hand, toying with it, keeping the blade vaguely aimed toward Griffiths. Reducing such a brutal man to a quivering puddle is one of the few things Jim has positive feelings for these days.

“We have a problem,” Alan Griffiths informs the floor.

“You mean _you_ have a problem, and you need me to clean up your mess.” Jim carefully brings his voice back to neutral. He takes a step around Grif, shoving one hand in his pocket casually, the other thumbing the blade. He sighs. “You know I won’t be here forever, Grif, to fold your socks and take out your trash.”

Grif bites back a retort. His voice is low. “Boss… someone’s asking for you… _you_ , specifically. By name.”

Jim whips around at that. Everything they’ve done has been Grif. _Griffiths_ is DC’s Moriarty. Morris is firmly out of it--  

_Fuck. Which name?_

“I need the communications on my desk, _right now_. Who else knows about this?”

“Just Pax. She brought it in.”

“I’ll need her, too. _Now_ , Grif.”

* * *

 

Paxton Ellis, personal assistant to some White House whoever, has proven herself an asset since Jim arrived in DC, and he would really prefer not to have to kill her.

It had taken Pax and ‘Morris’ a while to feel one another out. Jim had been suspicious of her motives; why would someone doing that well in DC sell out to the likes of Griffiths?

The answer, in the end, had been simple. She understood where power truly made its bed in this town, and she was certainly amenable to the paycheque that came with that understanding.

Pax, on the other hand, had glimpsed past a few layers of Morris’ cover, and had bristled at the notion of being duped. But once she’d realized it was strictly business, she had begun rolling her eyes at his occasional linguistic slip-ups (“Americans don’t say ‘rubbish’, _Morris_ ”), and they’d reached an unspoken agreement. Basically, until now, Paxton Ellis had been the only person in DC who knew that Jacob Morris didn’t exist.

Jim has his feet kicked up on his desk is lolling his head back and forth, popping as many vertebrae as he can without really moving. Paxton sits across from him, playing the crackly recording over for the third time.

_“I need him, and I know you know where to find him.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Moriarty.”_

_“I don’t know the name.”_

Jim closes his eyes and presses his fingertips together softly. He supposes it has really only been a matter of time before someone figured out who he is. “So, Pax, we’ve got a couple problems, you and I.”

“Sir.” Smart. Neither confirmation nor denial. This tugs a small smile from the side of Jim’s mouth.

“Problem Number One: did anyone besides you listen to this tape? Even Grif?”

“No.”

Jim opens his eyes, gazing first at the ceiling, then levels with the small, solid woman in front of him. “No?”

“No.” She takes a steady breath, meeting his molten black gaze with her own feisty, stubborn hazel. “All I told him was to tell you that someone asked for you by name.”

Jim hums approval, relaxing his head back again. A carefully composed exterior is key here. He has to address the issue firmly and with authority, but he can’t let it appear to affect him. “Good. Problem Number Two: is there any chance anyone overheard this conversation?”

Pax swallows with a dry click. “I don’t… I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” Jim gestures for her to elaborate. “We appeared to be alone, sir. To my knowledge, there aren’t cameras or recorders in the area. He—he got me out there by myself. For all I know, he had his own recording device. It’s not an uncommon place for people to go for discrete conversations. Someone could’ve had long-range audio equipment.”

Alright. An issue to be dealt with when it presents itself.

“And what happened afterward?”

“He threatened me, and I left. Waited till I was far enough from the Capitol and called Grif on a burner.”

Jim’s eyes never leave Paxton’s face. She’s something of an accomplished liar: comes with the job in a town like DC. But Jim has long since memorized her tells, and he sees none of them here. “Why did you decide to call Griffiths?”

She takes a long moment to smooth out her breathing. When she finally speaks, it’s quietly, but with a healthy dose of fearful respect. “I’m not stupid.”

Okay. Some jumped-up politician is running around DC, leaking whispers of _Moriarty_ everywhere he goes. He’s knows Pax is Jim’s informant. And now Paxton knows the truth. He sighs. “No, you’re certainly not.” He’s certainly dealt with worse, he’s dealt with Sherlock Holmes, but _Moriarty_ is beginning to boil up behind his eyes. “Alright, Pax. I’m going to tell you how this goes. And you’re going to listen _very carefully_ , because we need to clean this up, quick and neat.” Jim slowly, smoothly, makes his way to his feet, and casually saunters in behind her. He keeps his voice low, staying out of her sight. He becomes nothing but a menacing hiss, hot in her ear. “Hear this, _Ms. Ellis_. You have never _heard_ that name. It holds _no meaning_ for you. Whatever you _think you_ know? Forgotten. And let’s get one thing _absolutely, crystal clear_ , shall we? The only reason you’re alive right now is because I trust that _you_ are going to fix this, Paxton Ellis, or I will _turn you inside out_.” Moriarty settles gentle hands on Pax’s shoulders, nose and mouth grazing her hair, and he can _taste_ her fear. “I will _peel the skin_ from your body and _feed it to you_ , one strip at a time.” The quivering under his hands sends power rolling through him. “Do we have an understanding?”

She nods shakily, tension coiled desperately through every muscle. Her body searches desperately for escape, but she steels herself and meets Jim’s eyes.

“T-tell me what to do.”

* * *

 

The following morning, an envelope with no sender’s address lands on the desk of Jason Rodney. The card within is simple, cheap cardstock, untraceable. The front reveals nothing but a phone number in small printed font. On the back, in neat script: _Better than a British fairy tale._

It’s a couple of long, angry days before Rodney works up an ounce of nerve and dials the number from a shitty burner phone.

_“Nel speaking_. _”_ She’s on speaker. Jim’s lounging with a cup of some American excuse for tea, and Paxton is picking at a hangnail, pretending not to be nervous.

Rodney makes a startled sound, clears his throat before speaking. “I have a _situation_. It’s come to my attention that you, uh… you specialize in… _situations_.”

Jim rolls his eyes. _How did this incompetent shithead get to be a presidential campaign manager?_

_“Lousiana and D Street in one hour.”_ She’s firm and brisk, unyielding. Exactly as Jim knew she would be.

Shithead stumbles over his assent, muttering unintelligibly.

Nel ends the call and turns to Jim. She will be his eyes, ears, and mouth. Paxton can’t be directly involved in contact with Rodney, or she’ll be blown. Besides, Jim needs her digging around the Capitol. Grif is… well, he’s _Grif_ , and he’s not exactly built for missions depending on finesse. Jim himself must remain out of the eye of anyone who’s so much as _dreamed_ the name Moriarty, in case they’ve pulled their heads out of their asses within the last year and turned on a TV.

No, Nel is the obvious choice. She’s intelligent, controlled, and ruthless. If Jim gained anything by watching her work last week, it’s the confidence that she’s made for this mission.

* * *

 

> _I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see. Like you!_

 “Douglas Thorn, Republican presidential nominee. Billionaire businessman, no background in politics, but he’s loud and popular with voters. Had an affair with one Alondra Simms, his private pilot. Got her knocked up. Messy, now that they’ve secured the nomination and are headed into the general election. Thorn wants her gone, and he’s got Rodney on clean-up duty.”

> _Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me, to get rid of my lover’s nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?_
> 
> _Just so!_

Jim nods contemplatively, hums low in his throat. His mind is already six steps ahead, exhilarated by the mere notion of a case. A _consulting_ case. A chance to use his mind, to be clever. An escape.

> _Consulting criminal… Brilliant._

The words sound perfect in his memory, spilling, painting beautiful astonishment on Sherlock’s face. Jim narrowly bites back a smile, not wanting Nel and Paxton to see him indulging in a memory that borders on sentimental.

> _Isn’t it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will._
> 
> _I did._

Almost. Too close.

> _You’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way!_
> 
> _Thank you._

The cocky, frustrating _arse_.

> _Didn’t mean it as a compliment._
> 
> _Yes, you did!_
> 
> _Yeah, okay, I did._

He’d played it off with an exaggerated shrug, but truly he’d been piqued by Sherlock’s confidence.

> _But the flirting’s over Sherlock. Daddy’s had enough now! I’ve shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although, I have loved this. This little_ game _of ours…_

Sherlock had _gotten_ it. Picked up every delectable tidbit Jim had planted, barely _daring_ to hope that the adorable little detective would be on his level. And then Sherlock had _been there_ with him in that conversation at the pool, _really_ been there.

And now here’s Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, _finally_ with another chance to test his edge, and the competition is butter. He’s already got them beat.

“Take the job.”

At least the money’s decent.

* * *

 

Nel’s already left to get in touch with Rodney and begin her research. Jim is unexpectedly wrenched from his thoughts by a positively _seething_ Paxton. He stares at her, just shy of bewildered, as she gets in his face and digs an angry finger into his shoulder.

“You can’t just let her _go out there_ and kill a fucking _woman_ just because she had sex with fucking Douglas Thorn! That is UNACCEPTABLE.”

Jim chuckles softly. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think that _morals_ were relevant here? You might want to look into a different line of work.”

“I will not let you _kill_ Alondra Simms for getting fucked up by a madman who just happens to have power and money on his side. I will go out there and stop Nel myself if you don’t. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Pax, Nel would kill you before you could lay a finger on her,” Jim baits teasingly.

“That is NOT THE POINT!” Fury brings blood to her face and fire to her eyes. She’s about to launch into it again when Jim holds up a hand and cuts her off softly.

“Paxton.” He gestures to a chair. Not the one she’d previously occupied on the other side of his desk, but the comfy one pulled forward from the corner where Nel had been sitting next to him. He leans forward and braces his elbows on his knees as she begrudgingly plops herself down. “I want you to keep something in mind, Pax. Nel works for _me_ , and her actions are toward _my_ ends. Not Thorn’s.” He waits for her to glance up in acknowledgement. Her jaw is shoved forward in defiance of Jim’s authority as she does so, huffing through flared nostrils. _Bold._ “Thorn and Rodney clearly know about this organization, and they’ll know by now that this is where I am. I have to deal with the girl, Pax, but that doesn’t mean I want her dead.”

The gears clicking in Paxton’s head are all but audible. Her features are no less fierce, but curiosity dominates now. It’s in moments like these that Jim likes her best.

“Nel will keep her safe, fabricate paternity papers, and, as far as Thorn knows, the problem is dealt with. We get him thinking we’re on his side, so he relaxes. He hires a beautiful new pilot to fuck and moves on with his campaign. Simms will become my leverage, and possibly the child, if she keeps it. When the time comes, I will use her to _ruin_ him. But herein lies _our_ problem, Paxton.”

“Our problem, sir.”

“ _Moriarty._ ” Paxton flinches viscerally, knowing the very real threat to her life tied to the name. Now it comes from the mouth of the man himself; terror settles over her skin.

Jim cocks an eyebrow, enjoying her squirming. “There are few people who have business knowing that name, Paxton. I am… _displeased_ … that Jason Rodney thinks he’s one of them. Find out where it came from.”

“Sir..?”

Jim stands, stretching. “You heard me.”

“Sir! I—I’m an _informant_. All I’ve ever done is sell you information. I don’t know how to do things like that. I wouldn’t even know where to start—”

Jim rolls his eyes and lets his posture shift aggressively. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear before. This constitutes your part of clean-up duty. If not, I’ve got an afternoon with my balisong ahead of me. You’re welcome to join.” She shrinks away from him, shaking her head, but her eyes stay firm. He purses his lips and levels with her. “Paxton, you and _only_ you know my name. I need you to do this, because if you don’t, I will _one_ , have to tell someone else my name so they can do the research, and _two_ , have to kill you. I don’t want to do either of those things.” He’s nearly out the door, but stops again without turning. “Start with Thorn’s company. Strange contracts or employees. Anything, any little detail that doesn’t fit. Unusual contacts. Overseas, especially. Rodney’s a nobody. Anything he’s got came from working for Thorn.”


End file.
